Beyond the doors of this commute lies misery. Not that I mean to be dramatic or anything, but it’s true. At 9am there sits another thirty seven and a half hours of stress. After trudging through the doors and braving the heat when descending the stairs, I try to fight off the apathy. Targets, numbers, statistics, spreadsheets, names, addresses, dates – just raw information, spat at you like words from an unholy bible. When the boss speaks in tongues he often mentions performance for the week ahead, I hold back the urge to perform a tap dance on his head. More targets, more numbers, more stats etc, you get the picture. Performance metrics, they call them. Something to do with the corporate strategy or some such uncouth bollocks. I dunno. I switched off to the meanings behind these incantations many months ago. Now I just assume that I’m part of some great, beastly church whose dark pope hands down scripture on a daily basis for their minions to recite. These days, out of fear, I just try to keep my name in one box and out of another.
Does anyone have a passion for this kind of work? I wonder, as I place my wounded headset around my loveless head. The first beep starts the day, and someone talks in my ear. I try and solve their problem, automatically going through the required steps just in case the high priests are eavesdropping. The cycles repeats until sometime between 12 and 1pm, where we’re allowed to file out and buy food but by then we’re too numb to taste it. We resume an hour later, and repeat until the end. Before I leave I make one last check of my Inbox, making sure that none of the clergy want to flagellate me for doing my tasks wrong. Once I’m satisfied that I’ve escaped secondary punishment, I go home.
As I climb back into the real world, I start wondering what else I could be doing with my life. I used to consider myself such a creative soul, but now when I make it through my front door I’m robbed of any desire to forge any art. Inside I sit, watch my life go by a minute at a time. Losing it. Paralysed into doing nothing about it, feeling that I might be damned in this place forever.
So that’s what I do, I do nothing. Instead, I go to bed. I stopped praying years ago when I knew that they had my soul. If I can’t help myself, then who is going to? When I drift off, I breathe a sigh of relief that these dark lords can’t hold me forever – the weekend is just four days away.